Rakehell's Widow by Sandra Heath Read Free Book Online Page B

the reason for the Earl’s determin ation to have Jillian brought out this year, the year when Piers was believed to be going to Europe? The more Ala beth thought of it, the more convinced she became that this was the case, and the more angry she became that her father had not seen fit to tell her. But perhaps she was mis taken, perhaps she had read far more into the whole inci dent than there actually was. She kept her voice light when she spoke. “I did not know you were acquainted with Sir Piers.”
    Jillian looked sharply at her. “I’m not. At least— I’ve met him once.”
    “At Chatsworth.”
    “Yes, there was an autumn ball there last year.”
    Alabeth said nothing more, but Jillian’s replies had not reassured her in any way. There was more to it than merely a meeting at a ball, and Alabeth knew she must find out—although asking Jillian directly was out of the question, for it would be regarded as unwarranted interference, only too similar in vein to the whole Francis business. But how could she find anything out? Her father was on his way to Madras, and communicating with him would take far too long. No, there must be another way. Alabeth’s eyes cleared suddenly. Of course, she would write secretly to her father’s trusted agent at Wallborough Castle, Mr. Bateman, who was not only the steward but also an old friend. If there was anything to know, then he would know it, and he could be persuaded to tell Alabeth, for whom he had always had a soft spot. Yes, she would write to Mr. Bateman and find out exactly what had gone on after that meeting at Chatsworth.
     

Chapter 7
     
    The letter remained unwritten for the rest of that day, however, for Jillian was in the house and there was always the risk that she might see what was being written. The following morning she was to go shopping and Alabeth had every intention of writing then, but before she could do so, there was the somewhat ticklish matter of the menu for the dinner party to attend to.
    The Earl of Wallborough was a man of plain taste, liking good, old-fashioned English cooking, especially roast beef, and the cook, Mrs. Bourne, had never ventured into the realms of more exciting dishes. Alabeth was determined not to serve roast beef at her first dinner party in more than two years, but the difficulty was persuading Mrs. Bourne to a similar frame of mind. Alabeth waited in the morning room after breakfast, knowing that it would be no easy matter to achieve the cook’s willing cooperation.
    Mrs. Bourne was plump, cheerful, and blissfully un aware of the new dishes which were beginning to appear at fashionable dinner parties. Smoothing her crisp white apron, she bobbed a curtsy, her large mobcap wobbling on her frizzy gray hair. “You sent for me, madam?”
    “I did indeed. I wish to discuss the menu for the dinner party next Thursday.”
    “Yes, madam. There will be twelve guests, will there not?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh, I know exactly how much beef to order for that—”
    “Ah. Well, I’m afraid that I do not have beef in mind, Mrs. Bourne.”
    The cook looked quite astounded. “Not have beef? But the Earl always has beef.”
    “I know that, Mrs. Bourne, but I do not wish to.”
    The cook sniffed, straightening a little suspiciously. “Mutton? Pork, perhaps?”
    “Turkey—”
    “Oh, yes, madam.” The cook looked positively re lieved.
    “—in a cream celery sauce,” went on Alabeth. “And while I realize that my father always requested swede with his dinner, Mrs. Bourne, I would prefer never to taste that particular vegetable again, so please exclude it!”
    The cook’s face had fallen. “No swede? And the turkey served in French sauce?” She was horrified.
    “I do not believe the sauce is French, but I do know that it is very good with turkey and that I wish to serve it next Thursday. I wish the meal to begin with purée of artichokes and to end with meringues à la crème .”
    Mrs. Bourne looked quite faint. “Not oxtail